As For Me and My House is an essential Canadian work--a precise and compelling portrait of our culture, our psyche, and the nature of contemporary art itself, now available as a Penguin Modern Classic. In the windswept town of Horizon, an unamed diarist paints a vivid and enthralling picture of prairie life in the Depression era. Atmospheric, intimate, and richly observed, As For Me and My House is a moving meditation on the bittersweet nature of human relationships, on the bonds that tie people together and the undercurrents of feeling that can tear them apart. It is one of Canada's great novels and a landmark in modern fiction.

Michelle Ross's debut short-story collection serves as an encyclopedia of modern relationships, taking special interest in those formed on unequal footing, pitting daughters against mothers, wives against husbands, friends against friends. Legacy looms large, as behaviors are passed from one generation to the next, and those entrusted with caring for the young or keeping others employed are found derelict in their duties. Weaknesses are exploited, ignorance is exposed, and bonds are occasionally dissolved. Regarding the human condition as it is portrayed throughout this collection, one character's words echo prophetically: "You're at the complete mercy of giants who don't understand you." In spite of all this, Ross's stories are ultimately tales of striving: to understand, to connect, to reclaim. Themes of discovery are woven tightly, as these individuals, rather than remain in the dark, are regularly drawn to the light that is missing from their lives. Optimism may not abound, but neither do these characters wallow. Time and time again, they evolve into agents of change within their own lives, even if they sometimes choose not to act. In the end, such thematic depth gives rise to an astoundingly diverse array of voices, styles, and structures. No two entries in Ross's collection are alike, and collectively they reveal the potential of the American short story, leaving little unsaid.

It's 1909, and Teddy Roosevelt is not only hunting in Africa, he's being hunted. The safari is a time of discovery, both personal and political. In Africa, Roosevelt encounters Sudanese slave traders, Belgian colonial atrocities, and German preparations for war. He reconnects with a childhood sweetheart, Maggie, now a globe-trotting newspaper reporter sent by William Randolph Hearst to chronicle safari adventures and uncover the former president's future political plans. But James Pierpont Morgan, the most powerful private citizen of his era, wants Roosevelt out of politics permanently. Afraid that the trust-busting president's return to power will be disastrous for American business, he plants a killer on the safari staff to arrange a fatal accident. Roosevelt narrowly escapes the killer's traps while leading two hundred and sixty-four men on foot through the savannas, jungles, and semi-deserts of Kenya, Tanzania, Uganda, Congo, and Sudan.

Reprint of the original, first published in 1881.

"Chick Bassist is utterly savage. Lockhart's style waxes poetic as a modern Beat giving us a glimpse into Rock & Roll hell." - Laird Barron, Shirley Jackson Award-winning author of Occultation and The Croning Erin Locke, the Queen of Rock, wakes up at the crack of noon. "La Cucaracha" has infested her dream, and now echoes through her hotel room. "What the fuck is that?" Erin's voice is muffled by the thick blankets that completely cover her. Beside the lump that is Erin lies a black Ibanez bass guitar. A Heroes for Goats sticker adorns its reflective surface. Erin thrusts one arm out from beneath the blankets and fumbles for the nonexistent alarm clock. She's still slogging off fragments of her dream, that goddamn recurrent creep-out where she's a praying mantis, translucent green, perched on the crest of a burning city, devouring her still-copulating preymate. This time her meal had worn her father's face. Those dreams were the worst. Chick Bassist welcomes you into punk rock hell, the friendless disillusionment of waking up in a shitty motel room in California with half a joint and an empty six-pack, radio blaring Lou Reed, concrete ocean on all sides and a blazing inferno within.